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THE 

PHOTOPLAY 
WRITER 

BY 

LEONA  RADNOR 


WRITER  FOR  THE  MOTION  PICTURE  STORY 
MAGAZINE  AND  SCENARIO  EDITOR. 


PUBLISHED    BY 

LEONA    RADNOR 

118  EAST  28TH  STREET 
NEW  YORK 


COPYRIGHT    1913    BY 

LEONA     RADNOR 


ARRANGED    AND    PRINTED    BY 

THE     QUAKER    PRESS 

NEW    YORK 


PHOTOPLAYS 

Tlie  demand  for  photoplays  is  greater  to-day  than  ever 
before,  and,  according  to  authoritative  accounts,  this  de- 
mand will  go  on  steadily  increasing.  New  companies  are 
starting  up  ;  new  theatres  are  being  opened  ;  and  everyone 
who  has  made  a  study  of  this  wonderful  and  fascinating 
motion  picture  industry  is  of  the  opinion  that  it  is  merely 
in  its  infancy. 

Before  getting  right  down  to  information  and  instruction 
and  advice,  I  am  going  to  say  a  few  words  of  encourage- 
ment. I  realize  that  among  -those  who  will  read  this  little 
book  are  many  who  have  ideas,  but  have  lacked  either  the 
courage  or  the  technical  knowledge  or  the  power  of  ex- 
pression to  mold  these  ideas  into  stories  or  dramas.  To 
those  timid  or  unversed  ones,  let  me  say  emphatically  that 
photoplay  writing  offers  great  opportunities  to  them,  pro- 
vided, always,  that  their  ideas  are  of  such  quality  and 
quantity  as  to  form  sterling  photoplays.  Here  there  are 
no  requirements  of  style  and  sparkling  dialogue  to  fill;  you 
are  not  restricted  to  three  or  four  acts  into  which  all  the 
action  must  converge,  as  in  the  stage  play;  nor  are  you 
called  upon  to  display  literary  ability  in  the  powerful  and 
graceful  handling  of  narrative  and  imagery,  as  in  a  story. 

All  such  difficulties  are  cleared  away  from  the  path  of 
the  photoplay  wrriter.  When  an  idea  occurs  to  him,  he  has 
simply  to  jot  it  down  and  add  to  it  as  his  imagination  pic- 
tures the  developing  plot  (subject  to  a  few  simple  rules) 
until  he  has  a  sequence  of  incidents  that  form  an  interesting 
story. 

For  that  is  all  a  photoplay  is  —  just  a  story  told  in  pic- 
tures. And  everyone  has  a  story  —  if  not  a  bag  of  stories 
—  tucked  away  in  the  corners  of  his  mind.  One  doesn't 
have  to  live  where  life  is  teeming  and  surging  in  order  to 
write  a  successful  scenario.  Some  of  the  most  applauded 


phetopjays  ?re  those  simple  little  tales  of  country  or  home 
life  in  which  the  main  theme  is  a  strong  heart  interest. 
This  theme  may  be  the  love  of  sweethearts,  of  brothers  and 
sisters,  of  parents  and  children,  and  the  story  may  be  of 
the  simplest;  but  it  must  consist  of  incidents  that  reach 
and  hold  the  spectator  and  stamp  upon  his  appreciative 
faculties  an  impression  that  is  not  obliterated  as  soon  as  the 
reel  is  finished. 

For  instance,  one  of  the  prettiest  and  most  appreciated 
photoplays  I  have  seen  is  one  by  the  Edison  Company 
called  "Home.  A  Thanksgiving  Story."  It  is  the  old 
story  of  a  patient  and  loving  mother  looking  for  her  absent 
boy's  return.  On  Thanksgiving  Eve  she  is  preparing  the 
morrow's  dinner.  She  goes  out  to  the  post-box  at  the  gate. 
The  postman  has  just  left  the  mail,  but  there  is  no  letter 
from  the  boy.  Sadly  she  stands  gazing  down  the  road. 
Her  husband  comes  from  the  field,  puts  his  arm  about  her 
in  sympathy  and  leads  her  back  to  the  house.  That  even- 
ing, the  mother  writes  an  advertisement  and  sends  it  to  a 
city  paper.  This  is  the  advertisement:  "My  Child,  come 
home.  Then  it  will  truly  be  Thanksgiving  Day.  Mother." 

Then  follows  a  number  of  scenes  showing  tfhe  effect  of 
this  appeal  on  dwellers  in  the  city.  The  first  one  to  be 
affected  is  the  editor  of  the  paper  to  which  the  advertise- 
ment was  sent.  Upon  reading  it,  he  has  a  vision  of  his  old 
home  in  the  country,  and  the  longing  comes  upon  him  to 
visit  it.  He  puts  on  his  coat  and  hat,  and,  to  the  astonish- 
ment of  the  office  force,  he  rushes  out.  A  "man  about 
town,"  an  actress,  a  clubman — each  in  turn  reads  the  ad- 
vertisement and  prepares  to  take  a  train  back  to  the  coun- 
try home.  The  clubman,  in  his  haste,  throws  the  news- 
paper out  of  the  window.  It  falls  at  the  feet  of  a  boy — a 
boy  who  is  down  at  heel  and  out  at  elbow,  wandering  the 
streets  looking  for  a  job.  And  this  is  the  boy  for  whom 
the  advertisement  was  intended.  He  picks  up  the  paper, 
reads  the  few  appealing  words,  looks  helplessly  at  his 


shabby  clothes,  feels  despairingly  in  his  empty  pockets. 
He  has  no  money — but  he  must  go  home.  He  goes  to  the 
station  and  slips  into  a  box  car.  He  reaches  home  and 
quietly  enters  the  house  without  being  seen  or  heard. 
The  lonely  father  and  mother  are  standing  at  the  table 
saying  grace  over  the  Thanksgiving  dinner.  There  is  a 
third  place  for  the  absent  boy,  and  the  wanderer  ap- 
proaches and  stands  with  bowed  head.  When  grace  is 
finished,  the  father  and  mother  look  up  to  fmd  their  prayers 
answered — their  boy  is  home  again  and  their  Thanksgiv- 
ing Day  is  made  joyful. 

You  can  see  how  simple,  how  everyday  a  story  the  above 
is,  yet  each  time  that  I  have  seen  it,  the  spectators  ap- 
plauded heartily.  It  is  the  human  interest,  the  heart  throb 
in  it,  that  causes  it  to  register. 

Now,  in  everyone's  life,  there  is  at  least  one  good  story. 
In  every  little  village,  there  is  a  score  of  romances  and 
comedies.  If  one  of  them  is  not  sufficient  to  fill  out  a 
photoplay  of  the  desired  length  (from  fifteen  to  twenty 
minutes),  take  incidents  from  several  and  weave  them  to- 
gether. If  the  incidents  are  humorous,  so  much  the  better. 
Every  producer  is  anxious  to  get  hold  of  humorous  plays. 
There  is  a  great  scarcity  of  them.  The  sort  of  humor  want- 
ed is  not  the  rough  variety — not  an  attempt  to  make  people 
laugh  at  cruel  jokes  nor  at  accidents  that  mean  injury  to 
someone,  nor  at  mere  foolishness.  The  incidents  must  be 
of  humorous  situations  that  are  innocently  funny. 

Another  encouraging  point  in  connection  with  photo- 
play writing  is  that  practically  everything  is  possible  in 
photography.  Scenes  that  could  not  be  presented  on  a 
dramatic  stage  are  worked  out  by  the  moving  picture  actors 
and  the  camera  men.  People  can  fall  down  cliffs;  they 
can  be  apparently  blown  up  in  an  explosion;  they  can  be 
shown  struggling  for  breath  in  a  fire-swept  mine — so,  if 
you  have  a  tale  of  extraordinary  happenings  to  relate,  don't 
hesitate  for  fear  that  it  cannot  be  produced. 


But  also  bear  in  mind  that  there  are  limitations.  Be 
sure  to  have  your  incidents,  within  the  bounds  of  possibil- 
ity; do  not  concoct  a  play  that  would  tax  the  credulity  of 
spectators. 


THE  PRODUCTION  OF  PHOTOPLAYS  • 

For  the  enlightenment  of  those  who  are  in  the  dark,  I 
will  give  a  brief  account  of  the  production  of  photoplays. 

When  a  scenario  is  accepted  by  the  scenario  editor  of  a 
producing  company,  he  turns  it  over  (perhaps  with  some 
changes  and  suggestions)  to  the  stage  director.  This  di- 
rector studies  the  scenario,  alters  it  to  suit  his  purpose, 
makes  a  choice  of  actors  from  the  stock  company  main- 
tained by  the  producer,  plans  his  scenes,  and  rehearses  the 
actors  thoroughly  (either  in  the  studio  or  out  of  doors) 
before  the  camera  man  is  called  in.  Then,  as  the  scenes 
are  gone  through,  the  camera  operator  turns  the  crank  that 
reels  off  the  film  on  which  the  photographs  are  being  taken. 

The  film  is  a  celluloid  ribbon,  the  standard  size  being 
one  inch  and  three-eighths  wide.  Sixteen  pictures  a  second 
are  taken,  each  picture  being  an  inch  wide  and  three- 
fourths  of  an  inch  deep.  (  The  magazine  of  the  camera 
holds  from  150  to  300  feet  of  filmj  When  that  length  is 
used,  another  reel  is  put  in  and  the  picture-taking  goes 
on.  These  lengths  are  glued  together  (after  the  developing 
and  printing  processes)  thus  making  one  continuous  film. 

The  film  in  the  camera  is  the  negative,  and,  like  kodak 
films  and  the  plates  used  in  still  photography,  has  to  be 
developed.  From  it  many  positives  (also  films)  are  print- 
ed. These  are  tested  in  the  factory  by  being  thrown  on  a 
screen.  The  photography  and  the  acting  are  criticized. 
Often  the  actors  are  present  at  these  tests,  and  their  faults 
are  pointed  out  to  them  by  one  of  the  managers  or  direc- 
tors. Scenes  that  are  poorly  done  are  cut  out  of  the  film 
and,  if  necessary,  they  are  re-enacted.  Defects  in  photog- 
raphy are  remedied,  and,  when  the  company  is  satisfied 

4 


with  the  film,  it  is  released  to  exchanges  and  these  in  turn 
supply  the  theatres. 

The  developing  and  printing  of  those  long  ribbons  of 
films  are  very  wonderful  processes.  They  are  wound  on 
frames  and  dipped  into  the  developing  baths,  and,  when 
dry,  are  run  through  machines  to  be  printed  by  electric 
light. 

When  a  photoplay  is  shown  in  a  theatre,  the  film  passes 
from  an  upper  to  a  lower  magazine  on  the  projecting  ma- 
chine. The  pictures  are  magnified  by  a  powerful  lens 
through  which  a  very  strong  light  is  thrown  from  the 
"lamp  house/'  or  lantern,  on  the  machine. 


YOUR    SCENARIO 

"Scenario"  is  a  term  that  has  been  brought  into  the 
photoplay  vocabulary  from  the  dramatic  stage.  There 
it  is  applied  to  the  bare  plot  of  a  play — its  action  as  dis- 
tinct from  the  dialogue.  When  the  writing  of  photoplays 
developed  into  a  profession,  the  term  "scenario"  was 
adopted  as  the  most  fitting  for  the  form  in  which  plays  are 
offered  to  film  producers.  It  means  an  outline  of  the  plot, 
situation  by  situation,  arranged  in  scenes  as  the  action 
changes  its  base  of  operations. 

In  the  course  of  a  talk  with  Mr.  Horace  G.  Plimpton, 
Manager  of  the  Negative  Production  of  the  Edison  Com- 
pany, he  said:  "There  is  no  secret,  no  mystery  about  the 
writing  of  scenarios.  All  that  is  required  is  the  ability  to 
think  up  good,  effective  plots,  and  the  skill  to  present  them 
in  scenes  of  telling  action.  And  the  best  way  to  develop 
ability  and  acquire  skill  is  by  going  to  moving  picture  the- 
atres and  studying  the  films." 

From  the  start,  you  must  get  firmly  fixed  in  your  mind 
the  demand  that  something  must  be  doing  all  the  time. 
There  must  be  something  interesting,  something  pointing 
to  the  development  of  the  story  every  second  of  the  time. 
You  cannot  have,  as  in  a  story 'or  a  spoken  play,  a  couple 


of  men  sitting  and  calmly  talking  to  each  other,  without 
anything  to  explain  the  meaning  of  their  conversation.  Re- 
member, the  photoplay  is  dumb — its  meaning  has  to  be  ex- 
pressed by  action. 

You  will  probably  be  puzzled  at  first  as  to  the  gauging 
of  the  length  of  your  play.  You  should  plan  to  have  it 
last  about  fifteen  minutes.  When  you  have  your  plot 
sketched  out,  it  would  be  a  good  idea  for  you  to  take  your 
script  and  deliberately  go  through  the  action.  Do  not 
hurry,  for  every  scene  is  worked  over  by  the  director  of 
the  company  producing  the  play,  and  he  fills  in  the  chinks 
with  realistic  and  artistic  details  that  tend  to  lengthen  the 
duration. 

So,  as  I  say,  do  not  hurry  when  testing  the  time  required 
to  go  through  your  plajr.  If  it  covers  about  fifteen  min- 
utes, you  can  feel  easy  on  the  score  of  its  length.  Many 
novices  send  in  scenarios  that  could  be  reeled  off  in  less 
than  ten  minutes,  while  others  send  them  in  so  crammed 
with  incidents  that  they  would  require  over  a  thousand 
feet  of  film  (the  usual  length)  if  played  as  written. 

Now,  to  get  to  work  on  your  scenario.  The  first  step 
is,  naturally,  the  idea  for  your  plot.  You  may  have  a  sin- 
gle plot  of  consecutive  events,  or  you  may  have  a  primary 
and  a  secondary  theme  interlacing. 

Be  absolutely  original,  if  you  possibly  can.  If  you  take 
an  idea  from  a  newspaper  or  magazine  story,  work  it  out 
with  original  incidents.  You  Vill  notice  that  magazine 
stories  are  usually  copyrighted.  A  disregard  of  that  fact  is 
apt  to  bring  punishment  through  the  heavy  hand  of  the 
law. 

Nearly  every  company  has  a  scenario  editor,  and  he,  as 
well  as  the  directors  of  plays,  is  constantly  on  the  lookout 
for  plots  in  newspapers,  magazines,  and  books.  So,  unless 
you  inject  originality  into  your  play,  you  are  liable  to  send 
in  a  duplicate  of  one  already  written  and  produced,  with 
the  result  that  you  will  have  wasted  your  time  and  postage. 


Some  writers  have  been  unscrupulous  and  foolish  enough 
to  write  scenarios  of  photoplays  that  they  have  seen  on  the 
screen,  and  have  sent  them  to  other  companies.  To  say 
nothing  of  the  dishonesty  of  it,  it  is  an  absurd  thing  to  do; 
for  scenario  editors  occupy  their  responsible  positions  be- 
cause they  know  their  business.  And  that  business  requires 
that  they  be  conversant  with  the  productions  of  other  com- 
panies and  that  they  detect  at  a  glance  if  the  plot  of  a 
submitted  scenario  is  stolen.  They  are  also  abreast  of 
magazine  reading,  so  it  is  futile  for  a  scenario  writer  to 
attempt  to  "get  by"  with  a  plagiarized  story. 

Now  that  I  have  impressed  upon  you  not  only  the  advis- 
ability but  the  necessity  for  originating  your  plots,  we  can 
proceed  with  the  writing  of  the  scenario. 

Some  film  companies  advertise  that  they  want  only  ideas, 
but  I  would  advise  always  sending  in  a  scenario,  as  very 
little  is  paid  for  mere  ideas.  And  given  a  good  plot,  the 
more  workmanlike,  the  more  professional  a  scenario,  the 
more  money  it  will  command. 

To  demonstrate  the  scenario  form,  I  shall  take  the  fa- 
miliar story  of  "Cinderella." 

The  first  step  is  to  write  a  short  synopsis — that  is,  out- 
line of  the  story.  This  synopsis  must  be  as  brief  as  it  is 
possible  to  make  it  and  still  give  the  reader  a  clear  idea  of 
your  play.  Confine  yourself  to  200  words — 250  words  at 
the  most.  Make  it  interesting,  so  that  the  reader  will 
wish  to  go  on  with  your  scenario.  Write  it  on  a  sheet  by 
itself  and  let  it  be  the  first  page  of  your  script,  so  that  it 
will  meet  the  reader's  eye  immediately. 

CINDERELLA 

Synopsis 

Cinderella's  stepmother  and  stepsisters,  being  ugly  of 
disposition  as  well  as  of  feature,  are  jealous  of  her.  They 
ill-treat  her  and  make  a  drudge  of  her.  While  they  are  at 
a  ball,  Cinderella's  fairy  godmother  pays  the  lonely  girl  a 
visit.  Learning  how  she  is  treated,  the  fairy  transforms 


Cinderella's  rags  into  beautiful  clothes;  turns  a  pumpkin 
into  a  carriage/  and  rats  and  mice  into  coachman,  grooms, 
and  ponies.  She  then  sends  the  radiant  Cinderella  to  the 
ball.  There,  she  meets  and  charms  the  prince.  She  will 
not  tell  who  she  is.  Running  from  the  ballroom  at  midnight, 
she  loses  her  little  glass  slipper.  The  prince  picks  it  up 
and,  next  day,  goes  in  search  of  the  wearer.  He  tries  the 
slipper  on  the  feet  of  many  girls.  Cinderella's  stepsisters 
cannot  squeeze  their  toes  into  it,  but  Cinderella  slips  it  on 
easily.  The  fairy  godmother  again  appears  and  transforms 
Cinderella  into  a  beautiful  princess,  and  the  prince  leads 
her  away  to  become  his  bride. 

Now,  from  the  synopsis  we  work  out  the  scenario.  Each 
time  the  action  changes  from  one  place  to  another,  it 
means  a  new  scene.  A  scene  is  the  action  taken  by  the 
camera  in  one  spot  without  stopping. 

Besides  numbering  each  scene,  you  must  indicate  the  set- 
ting— that  is,  whether  it  is  in  a  room,  in  the  woods,  on 
board  a  ship,  etc.  Under  the  title  of  your  scenario,  write 
out  a  cast  of  the  characters  of  your  play. 

CINDERELLA 

Cast  of  Characters 

Cinderella  The  Prince 

Her  Stepmother  The  Fairy  Godmother 

Her  two  Stepsisters  Guests  at  the  ball,  heralds,  etc. 

For  the  first  scene,  you  have  the  picture  of  Cinderella's 
home  life.  She  is  unhappy,  being  nagged  and  forced  to 
do  drudgery  for  her  stepmother  and  stepsisters,  while  they 
think  only  of  their  own  pleasures.  Finally,  they  go  up- 
stairs to  dress,  while  Cinderella  crouches  on  the  hearth, 
sifting  the  ashes  for  the  seeds  the  malicious  stepmother  has 
thrown  down  just  to  make  her  work. 

Now,  that  is  all  that  can  be  shown  in  the  first  scene,  for 
that  is  all  that  takes  place  at  that  time  in  that  set.  So 
the  first  scene  will  be  as  follows: 

8 


SCENE    I 
An  old-fashioned  kitchen  with  large  fireplace 

Cinderella,  in  rags,  polishing  a  copper  kettle.  Her  step- 
mother and  stepsisters  enter  and  begin  scolding  her  and 
ordering  her  from  one  task  to  another.  These  finished,  the 
stepmother  maliciously  throws  a  handful  of  pumpkin  seeds 
into  the  ashes  on  the  hearth  and  commands  Cinderella  to 
pick  them  out.  Stepmother  and  daughters  laugh  at  her 
dismay  and  weariness  and  leave  the  room. 

Note — You  cannot  end  your  first  scene  with  "Step- 
mother and  daughters  go  upstairs  to  their  rooms  and  dress 
for  the  ball."  As  the  camera  from  its  present  position 
cannot  take  the  mother  and  her  daughters  in  their  room  up- 
stairs, we  make  another  scene  of  that  view. 

SCENE  II 
Daughters'  Room 

The  two  girls  are  dressing  for  the  ball.  They  powder 
and  rouge  their  faces  and  simper  at  their  images  in  the 
mirror.  Mother  enters,  handsomely  attired.  They  admire 
her,  arrange  her  hair,  pin  on  a  flower,  etc.  She  does  same 
to  them,  then  they  all  take  court  patches  from  a  little  box 
and  stick  several  on  their  faces.  Quite  satisfied  with  them- 
selves, they  leave  the  room. 

SCENE    III 
Same  as  Scene  I 

Cinderella  kneeling  on  hearth.  Stepmother  and  daugh- 
ters enter  and  flaunt  their  finery  before  the  little  drudge. 
They  give  her  final  instructions,  order  her  to  open  the  door 
for  them,  and  sweep  out,  laughing  among  themselves. 
Cinderella  goes  to  the  window  and  wistfully  watches  them 
depart. 

Note — You  cannot  say  "They  sweep  out,  get  into  a 
coach  and  are  driven  to  the  palace,  where  they  enter  the 
ballroom  and  are  greeted  by  the  prince."  As  the  camera 
is  focussed  on  the  room,,  the  mother  and  daughters  are  out 
of  the  scene  as  soon  as  they  pass  through  the  door.  To 
show  them  driving  to  the  ball  would  entail  another  scene, 


and  their  arrival  at  the  palace  yet  another.     As  there  is  no 
interest  attached  to  these  incident $t  we  omit  them. 

SCENE    IV 
Ballroom  in  the  Palace 

Guests  are  dancing  the  minuet.  The  prince  is  strolling 
about.  Stepmother  and  daughters  arrive.  The  prince 
greets  them  stiffly  and  passes  on.  Women  smile  at  him  and 
attempt  to  interest  him,  but  he  pays  no  heed  to  them. 

SCENE    V 

Kitchen,  same  as  Scene  I 

Cinderella  on  the  hearth  sadly  gazing  at  the  fire.  Sud- 
denly her  fairy  godmother  appears.  She  asks  Cinderella 
what  is  the  matter  and  why  she  is  in  rags.  The  girl  tells 
her  how  she  is  made  to  drudge.  The  godmother  treads  a 
measure  of  the  minuet  and,  by  gestures,  asks  the  girl  if  she 
would  like  to  go  to  the  ball.  Cinderella  answers  "Yes" 
enthusiastically.  Fairy  waves  a  wand  and  Cinderella  is 
beautifully  dressed.  She  dances  about  in  delight.  Fairy 
motions  to  door  for  Cinderella  to  pass  out.  Then  stops  and 
points  to  figure  twelve  on  large  clock  and  indicates  that 
Cinderella  must  return  by  midnight. 

SCENE    VI 

Ballroom,  same  as  Scene  IV 

The  friends  of  the  prince  urge  him  to  dance.  They 
bring  up  beautiful  women  to  present  to  him.  He  turns 
them  over  to  other  partners  and  walks  wearily  away. 
Nothing  interests  him. 

SCENE    VII 

Garden  in  front  of  Cinderella's  home 

Cinderella  and  fairy  godmother  enter  from  house.  Fairy 
carries  a  trap  containing  rats  and  mice.  Fairy  waves  a 
wand  over  a  large  pumpkin  and  it  is  transformed  into  a 
dainty  carriage ;  she  waves  wand  over  the  rats  and  mice, 
and  they  become  coachman,  grooms,  and  ponies.  Cinder- 
ella gets  into  carriage  and  is  driven  off. 

10 


SCENE    VIII 
Ballroom,  same  as  Scene  IV 

Guests  dancing.  Cinderella  enters.  She  creates  a  sensa- 
tion. The  prince  is  immediately  charmed  with  her.  He 
approaches  and  leads  her  into  the  dance.  Her  stepsisters, 
not  recognizing  her,  make  deep  curtseys  as  she  passes 
them  with  the  prince. 

SCENE    IX 

Leader :     Midnight 

An  alcove  off  the  main  hall  of  the  palace.     Clock  on  mantel 

or  standing  in  corner 

Cinderella  enters  as  if  trying  to  make  her  escape.  She 
looks  at  clock  and  starts  toward  the  hall.  A  number  of 
young  men  rush  in  pursuit  of  her  and  surround  her  begging 
for  a  dance.  She  refuses  them  all,  glancing  at  the  clock. 
The  prince  enters  and  claims  a  dance.  She  is  about  to 
place  her  hand  in  his,  when  she  starts  and  listens,  her 
hand  involuntarily  keeping  time  to  the  strokes  of  the  clock. 
(Flash  clock  dial  with  hands  pointing  at  twelve.)  With 
sudden  resolution,  she  flings  off  the  prince's  hand  and  runs 
out  through  the  archway.  One  of  her  slippers  drops  from 
her  foot.  The  prince  stops  to  pick  it  up,  then  runs  after 
her.  He  stops  at  the  archway,  looking  in  all  directions. 
He  indicates  that  she  has  disappeared. 

SCENE    X 

Kitchen,  same  as  Scene  I 

Cinderella  enters  hurriedly,  out  of  breath.  All  of  her 
finery  has  vanished,  with  the  exception  of  her  little  glass 
slipper,  which  she  carries  in  her  hand.  She  looks  at  it, 
then  thrusts  it  quickly  into  the  pocket  of  her  ragged  skirt. 
She  sinks  down  upon  the  hearth.  Her  stepmother  and  step- 
sisters enter  in  great  excitement,  talking  and  gesticulating. 
They  scowl  at  Cinderella  and  order  her  to  help  them  un- 
dress. 

11 


SCENE    XI 

Leade^ :        Next  Day.  A  Street. 

People  leaning  from  windows.  The  prince  and  heralds 
in  street.  The  prince  holds  aloft  the  glass  slipper.  The 
heralds  proclaim  (Cut  in) :  "The  prince  will  wed  the  maid 
who  can  wear  the  slipper."  Girls  press  forward  eagerly. 

SCENE    XII 

A  living-room 

Stepmother  and  her  daughters  peering  from  window  and 
talking.  They  look  at  their  feet  and  nod  approvingly. 
The  sisters  will  try  on  the  slipper.  They  begin  to  prink. 

SCENE    XIII 
Street,  same  as  Scene  XI 

The  prince  comes  from  a  house.  He  shakes  his  head  and 
proceeds  next  door.  Crowd  is  curious  and  tries  to  look  in 
window.  Prince  comes  out  shaking  his  head  in  discourage- 
ment. 

SCENE    XIV 
Living-room,  same  as  Scene  XII 

Stepmother  and  daughters  still  looking  from  window. 
Suddenly  turn  and  assume  dignified  attitudes.  They  call 
Cinderella  and  order  her  to  open  the  door.  She  does  so 
and  conceals  herself  behind  the  door.  Prince  and  page 
enter.  Prince  indicates  that  he  wishes  to  try  on  the  slip- 
per. The  sisters  try  to  force  it  on,  but  they  cannot  squeeze 
their  toes  into  it.  The  prince  is  about  to  leave  when  he 
catches  sight  of  Cinderella.  He  calls  her  to  him  and  tries 
the  slipper  on.  It  slips  on  easily  and  she  draws  the  mate 
from  her  pocket.  Enraptured,  the  prince  kisses  her  hand. 
The  fairy  godmother  appears  and,  with  a  wave  of  the  magic 
wand,  transforms  Cinderella  into  a  beautiful  princess.  The 
prince  leads  her  away,  while  her  stepmother  and  stepsisters 
look  on  with  astonishment  and  envy. 

There  you  have  a  model  of  the  scenario  form.  This  con- 
tains fewer  scenes  than  the  majority  of  scenarios.  \  From 

12 


>!'*-»***'.  t**^^**  _^»» 

t/  Tijf  iw 


eighteen  to  twenty-five  scenes  usualty  go  to  make  up  a 
photoplay,  and  as  many  as  thirty-five  have  been  used. 
While  it  is  not  advisable  to  keep  your  characters  in  one 
scene  for  any  length  of  time  (spectators  grow  restless  if 
one  scene  is  kept  in  sight  too  long),  it  is  also  advisable  not 
to  have  your  play  cut  up  by  a  lot  of  short  scenes.  But 
these  points  all  hinge  upon  the  nature  of  your  play.  In  an 
out-of-doors  play,  it  may  be  necessary  to  move  from  place 
to  place  rapidly.  In  a  domestic'  play,  you  may  be  obliged 
to  use  the  same  setting  repeatedly.  You  must  use  your 
judgment  in  the  matter.  When  the  greater  part  of  the 
action  passes  in  a  certain  setting,  change  frequently  to  an- 
other setting,  then  come  back  to  the  former.  In  this  way 
you  will  obviate  monotony. 

Plan  your  action  so  that  the  play  advances  logically  and 
the  scenes  follow  each  other  in  natural  sequence.  When 
characters  are  to  appear  later  in  a  different  setting,  you 
must  first  take  them  off  the  preceding  scene;  or,  do  not 
have  them  appear  immediately,  but,  instead,  introduce  an- 
other scene  in  which  they  do  not  appear. 

With  the  "Cinderella"  scenario  as  a  guide  you  should  be 
able  to  outline  any  plot.  Some  writers  reverse  the  work- 
ing plan  I  suggested — they  first  write  the  play  and  then 
the  synopsis. 

An  invariable  rule  that  will  help  you  with  editors  is  this: 
Be  as  brief  as  possible ;  don't  fill  your  scenarios  with  trivial 
explanations. 

In  Scene  IX,  in  parentheses  is  the  sentence:  "Flash 
clock  with  hands  pointing  at  twelve."  The  terms  "flash," 
"close  view,"  "cut  in,"  and  "screen"  are  used  as  directions 
for  the  presentation  of  something  outside  the  action  of  the 
scene  then  progressing  or  something  within  the  scene  to  be 
enlarged.  You  have  noticed  in  some  motion  pictures  that 
the  action  will  be  interrupted  to  show  a  hand,  enlarged, 
writing  a  letter  or  opening  a  locket,  or,  as  in  this  scenario, 
there  will  be  a  clock  or  watch  dial  showing  the  time;  a  let-' 

18 


ter  or  telegram  will  be  "screened";  there  will  be  a  "cut  in" 
of  another  scene  shown  for  a  few  seconds  only,  to  accentu- 
ate a  comparison  or  show  what  is  taking  place  somewhere 
else  at  the  same  moment. 

You  have  also  noticed  that  on  motion  picture  films  sub- 
titles, or  "leaders/*  are  flashed  on  the  screen  to  explain  the 
coming  scenes.  When  you  write  your  scenario,  it  is  not 
necessary  for  you  to  put  in  these  sub-titles.  The*  scenario 
editor  or  the  director  supplies  them  as  a  rule;  but  if  you 
think  you  have  a  set  of  "leaders"  that  are  to  the  point, 
write  each  directly  under  the  number  of  the  scene  it  eluci- 
dates. 

Experienced  writers  usually  furnish  their  own  "leaders" 
and  indicate  in  parentheses  the  number  of  words  used,  so 
that  the  director  can  see  at  a  glance  how  many  feet  of  film 
will  be  required.  For  example: 

Scene  I 

The  Little  Drudge.     (3  words) 
An  old-fashioned  kitchen  with  large  fireplace 

Cinderella,  in  rags,  polishing,  etc. 

Scene  VIII 

The  Belle  of  the  Ball.     (5  words) 
Same  as  Scene  IV 

Guests  dancing.     Cinderella  enters,  etc. 

Once  in  a  while,  it  is  permissible  to  use  a  sentence  of 
dialogue  to  emphasize  the  action.  This  usually  comes  at 
the  end  of  a  scene  and  is  often  used  as  the  sub-title.  For 
instance,  you  have  a  domestic  episode — the  husband,  leav- 
ing the  house,  embraces  his  wife  affectionately.  He  takes 
out  his  watch,  points  to  the  figure  two  on  the  dial.  "Meet 
me  at  two  o'clock."  Or,  a  son  has  disgraced  his  family. 
The  father  denounces  his  conduct  and,  in  a  rage,  points  to 
the  door.  "Go!  and  never  return!" 

In  the  foregoing  "Cinderella"  scenario,  in  Scene  XI,  I 
used  the  sentence:  "The  prince  will  wed  the  maid  who  can 
wear  the  slipper."  That  bit  of  dialogue  explains  the 

14 


proclamation  of  the  heralds,  and  can  be  used  as  a  sub-title. 
But  let  me  caution  you  against  indulging  in  frequent  dia- 
logue— at  most,  it  must  be  only  a  short,  enlightening  sen- 
tence. And  use  telegrams  and  letters  only  when  absolutely 
necessary  to  the  working  out  of  your  plot.  ''Leaders*'  can- 
not be  more  than  twenty  words  in  length,  and  the  shorter 
they  are  the  better.  Letters  and  telegrams  must  be  as  con- 
densed as  possible.  A  letter  should  not  contain  more  than 
thirty  to  forty  words. 

Always  indicate  an  appreciable  lapse  of  time  between 
scenes.  If  you  have  a  scene  between  a  young  girl  and  a 
boy,  you  must  not,  without  warning,  have  them  walk  on  in 
the  next  scene  years  older.  Designate  the  lapse  of  time 
after  the  number  of  the  scene,  thus: 

SCENE    V 
Leader:     Ten  Years  Later 

"Ten  years  later,"  used  as  a  "leader"  on  the  screen  be- 
fore Scene  V  is  shown,  prepares  the  spectators  and  makes 
the  situation  clear. 

When  you  have  a  vision  or  dream  in  your  play,  de- 
scribe as  follows: 

Scene  6 — A  garden. 

James  enters.  He  greets  the  young  couple.  They  shake 
hands  with  him  cordially,  then  walk  away  out  of  picture, 
smiling  and  looking  back.  He  looks  after  them  and  nods, 
laughing.  He  seats  himself  under  a  tree,  resting  his  head 
against  the  trunk.  He  grows  drowsy,  closes  his  eyes, 
sleeps.  (Fade  into  DREAM.) 

THE  DREAM. 

Scene  7 — A  busy  city  street. 

James  stands  on  a  corner  watching  the  passersby,  as 
though  in  search  of  someone.  A  young  girl  approaches  his 
corner.  He  starts,  steps  in  front  of  her,  and  bows.  Etc. 

When  the  scenes  of  the  dream  are  completed,  write: 
"(Dream  fades  away.  Back  to  Scene  6.)"  The  number  of 
the  next  scene  will  follow  that  of  the  last  scene  of  the 

15 


dream.     For  instance,  if  the  last  scene  of  the  dream  was  10r 
the  next  scene  will  be  1 1 . 

Sometimes,  a  vision  is  but  momentary  and  does  not  re- 
quire a  change  of  scenes.  In  that  case,  express  as  follows: 
"(Fade  into  vision.)  THE  VISION:  Marie  appears  at 
the  door  holding  out  her  hands  appealingly.  (Fade  away. 
Back  to  picture.)  Jack  stares  before  him,  etc." 

If  your  play  deals  with  a  historical  subject,  give  the 
period  under  your  cast  of  characters. 

In  your  cast  of  characters,  it  is  a  good  idea  to  signify 
the  occupation  of  each  or  his  relation  to  the  others ;  for 
instance,  taking  an  imaginary  cast: 

Richard   Price a   mine   owner 

Jenny    his    daughter 

John  Wheeler a  mining  engineer 

Philip  Dean supt.  of  the  mine 

Mrs.  Ross friend  of  John  Wheeler 

Jim   a  miner 

Think  up  a  good  title  for  your  play.  A  short  one  is 
always  preferable  to  a  long  one.  The  choice  of  a  title 
may  seem  a  very  simple  matter,  but  I  assure  you  that  it  is 
of  considerable  importance.  A  commonplace  or  much-used 
title  will  often  discourage  a  tired  editor  before  he  begins  a 
reading  of  the  play.  Such  obvious  and  ancient  headings  as 
"A  Mother's  Love,"  "The  Power  of  Gold,"  "Married  in 
Haste,"  and  others  that  were  old  in  story  before  moving 
pictures  were  born,  will  not  prejudice  the  editor  in  your 
favor  when  he  opens  your  envelope.  Show  originality  in 
the  christening  of  your  play  as  well  as  in  its  plot.  Let  the 
name  be  expressive  of  the  play,  let  it  be  crisp  and  a  stimu- 
lant to  the  editor's  curiosity. 


YOUR    STORY 

Your  story  must  be  of  such  strength  and  interest  as  to 
hold  the  attention  of  spectators  from  start  to  finish.  Be- 
gin with  a  situation  that  rouses  interest,  then  develop  the 

16 


theme  logically,  putting  in  only  such  minor  scenes  as  are 
indispensable,  and  work  for  a  climax  at  the  end.  The  last 
scene  should  be  the  final  clearing  up  of  the  preceding 
events — it  should  show  the  solution  of  the  problem  or  puz- 
zle, if  there  is  one — and  should,  when  possible,  contain  a 
surprise  or  "snapper/* 

Remember  that  the  central  plot  of  a  play  must  depict 
some  episode  in  the  lives  of  two  or  three  leading  charac- 
ters. Do  not  introduce  others  with  side  complications  and 
separate  interests.  It  does  not  require  a  big  cast  nor  a 
pretentious  stage-setting  to  make  a  big  impression.  A 
good  play,  strong  in  its  appeal,  rarely  demands  more  than 
three  or  four  leading  characters.  The  other  characters  are 
subordinate  and  should  be  kept  in  the  background.  Any 
secondary  business  must  serve  merely  as  a  "feeder"  to  the 
main  story. 

Aim  to  have  your  story  human;  your  characters  natural, 
true  to  life.  Identify  your  principal  characters  in  the  first 
scene  or  in  those  closely  following.  Have  each  one  do 
something  characteristic  of  his  position  in  life  or  of  his  dis- 
position— in  a  word,  of  his  significance  in  your  play.  If  he 
is  a  villain,  have  him  do  something  to  establish  that  fact 
immediately,  so  that  the  spectators,  instead  of  being  puz- 
zled and  irritated,  will  understand  at  the  outset  and  follow 
the  picture  absorbedly  and  without  effort. 

Never  lose  sight  of  the  fact  that  the  photoplay  is  dumb. 
There  can  be  no  subtleties  in  it;  the  characters  and  their 
acts  must  be  obvious.  Plots  that  are  interesting  and  grip- 
ping in  short  stories  and  novels  are  often  unsuitable  for 
photoplay  production,  for  the  reason  that  on  the  screen 
there  can  be  no  explanation  of  motives,  codes  of  morals, 
mental  and  spiritual  processes.  Nothing  but  action  can  be 
shown  and  such  underlying  incentives  and  mental  and  spir- 
itual workings  as  can  be  readily  interpreted  by  gestures  and 
facial  expression.  Fear,  worry,  anger,  horror,  remorse — all 
these  can  be  expressed  by  attitude  and  facial  expression. 

17 


But  impulsive  acts  that  cannot  be  easily  understood  and 
other  acts  that  are  the  result  of  certain  trains  of  reasoning 
that  it  would  be  impossible  to  explain  in  a  picture  must  be 
avoided. 

It  is  probably  superfluous  to  state  that,  in  order  to  write 
successfully,  you  must  visualize  your  play — you  must  in 
imagination  see  your  characters  perform  their  parts.  This 
faculty  of  imagination  must  be  cultivated,  if  you  do  not 
possess  it  naturally.  Otherwise,  your  efforts  will  lack  con- 
centration, sharpness,  and  strength — and,  consequently, 
value. 

Write  about  things  with  which  you  are  familiar.  Do  not 
write  about  people  and  localities  of  which  you  know  noth- 
ing. If  you  are  not  acquainted  with  the  customs  of  certain 
distinct  types,  such  as  the  mountaineers  of  Kentucky,  do 
not  attempt  to  dramatize  them.  Know  the  conditions  you 
wish  to  deal  with  before  you  commit  yourself  to  paper  or 
your  play  to  the  critical  scrutiny  of  an  editor. 

Visit  motion  picture  theatres  and  familiarize  yourself 
with  the  essentials  of  the  photoplay.  Pay  attention  not 
only  to  the  manner  in  which  the  interest  is  kept  up  and 
brought  to  a  climax,  but  note  also  the  technical  side  of  it. 
A  study  of  the  sequence  of  scenes,  the  "leaders,"  the  "cut 
ins,"  the  exits  of  the  characters  in  one  scene  and  their  en- 
entrances  in  the  following  scene,  will  help  you  more  than 
you  would  at  first  deem  possible.  In  fact,  it  is  this  study 
that  will  give  you  "technique,"  which  means  an  expert  and 
artistic  handling  of  your  story. 

When  you  do  not  like  a  picture  you  are  viewing,  ask 
yourself  why;  criticize  it  and  try  mentally  to  reconstruct 
it  so  that  it  would  be  more  interesting  to  your  way  of 
thinking.  When  you  like  a  play,  think  over  the  plot,  the 
manner  of  its  presentation,  scene  by  scene,  and  store  it 
away  as  a  reference  for  future  assistance — not  to  copy,  but 
to  recall  as  a  guide  when  you  are  facing  puzzling  prob- 
lems in  the  planning  of  your  characters  and  scenes. 

18 


BUILDING    YOUR    PLOT 

A  plot  will  not  leap  into  your  mind  in  a  whole  and  fin- 
ished state.  It  is  a  growth.  You  may  be  inspired  with 
the  basic  idea,  but  you  have  to  construct  your  plot.  Your 
story  must  be  thought  over  and  dreamed  over  until  you 
have  your  facts.  Then  begin  shaping  it.  Throughout  the 
growth  of  the  plot,  the  problem  is  to  build  up  the  interest 
by  adding  one  complication  after  another.  When  the  grand 
climax  is  reached,  the  problem  is  to  remove  the  complica- 
tions in  such  a  way  as  to  retain  the  interest. 

Every  plot  must  have  an  object.  That  object  must  be 
settled  upon  at  the  start,  then  kept  distinctly  in  view  as 
the  situations  are  introduced.  When  the  plot  is  completed, 
that  object  must  have  been  accomplished. 

A  plot  is  made  up  of  conflict,  of  struggle,  of  opposition. 
There  is  always  an  obstacle  to  be  removed;  there  is  always 
a  problem  to  solve.  If  the  action  of  a  play  were  direct,  it 
would  soon  come  to  an  end.  The  purpose  must  be  retarded 
by  an  obstacle;  then  the  obstacle  must  be  overcome;  the 
action  speeds  again  toward  the  goal;  it  is  again  delayed; 
and  so  on  to  the  end. 

The  clash  of  interests  between  the  characters  is  the 
result  of  good  motives  being  thwarted  by  bad  motives.  The 
good  must  always  win  out  in  the  end,  though  defeated  in 
some  of  the  scenes  in  order  to  create  suspense.  The  con- 
flict of  interests  is  not  always  confined  to  the  virtuous  and 
'the  wicked.  Oftentimes,  circumstances,  misunderstandings, 
selfishness,  carelessness,  ignorance,  or  indifference  will 
bring  about  situations  as  dramatic  as  if  a  villain  had 
planned  the  opposition.  In  comedy,  the  clash  usually 
comes  about  through  misunderstandings  or  blundering. 

The  incidents  of  a  plot  must  be  "motived" ;  that  is,  the 
cause  of  every  incident  must  be  apparent  in  some  incident 
that  has  gone  before  and  has  established  a  motive  for  what 
follows.  Every  event  should  grow  naturally  out  of  the 
preceding  incidents  and  lead  naturally  to  those  that  come 

19 


after.  Without  well-defined  cause  and  effect,  you  have 
only  a  string  of  episodes.  You  must  learn  that  mere  action 
does  not  constitute  a  plot,  nor  does  mere  sentiment,  nor 
romantic  scenes.  Likewise,  foolery  or  the  playing  of  tricks 
does  not  make  a  comedy. 

An  absolute  requisite  of  your  plot  is  SUSPENSE.  It 
is  the  art  of  keeping  the  solution  of  the  complications 
doubtful.  Suspense  begins  with  interest  in  the  action;  it 
is  increased  through  sympathy  with  the  characters ;  it  is 
further  increased  by  curiosity  as  to  the  winding  up  of  the 
play.  If  spectators  can  be  kept  in  doubt  as  to  the  out- 
come, their  interest  is  held  to  the  end,  and  the  writer  has 
achieved  suspense.  Suspense  has  been  called  the  nervous 
system  of  the  drama.  If  it  is  a  necessity  in  the  spoken 
drama,  it  is  much  more  so  in  the  photoplay.  For,  in  the 
former,  dialogue  can  be  made  to  absorb  the  attention,  while 
the  picture  play  makes  its  appeal  to  the  intelligence  and 
the  sympathies  solely  through  action.  Suspense-  should  be 
kept  up  to  the  very  end,  although  it  must  be  relieved  from 
time  to  time  to  loosen  the  tension  and  allow  of  its  being 
renewed  with  more  force.  Not  until  the  end  should  it  be 
utterly  removed  and  every  vestige  of  doubt  cleared  away. 

In  each  situation  in  which  a  clash  brings  about  a  result 
that  appears  to  be  decisive,  you  have  a  CLIMAX.  Climax 
means  the  height  of  the  action.  It  is  the  result  of  a 
growth,  a  piling  up  of  cause  and  effect  to  the  apex  of  the 
situation.  There  may  be  several  climaxes  in  your  play, 
but  each  one  must  be  stronger  than  the  preceding  one  until 
the  GRAND  CLIMAX  is  reached.  The  grand  climax  is 
the  turning  point,  the  crisis,  the  goal  of  your  plot.  After 
that  comes  the  denouement,  which  means  the  untying  of  the 
knot.  In  fact,  the  climax  may  be  compared  to  a  knot  that 
i.<  gradually  and  forcefully  formed  by  the  action  of  the 
plot.  When  it  can  be  drawn  no  tighter,  the  grand  climax 
is  reached  and  the  untying  begins.  This  untying,  or  clear- 
ing up,  is  called  the  "anti-climax,"  or  "fall."  It  must  be  as 

20 


brief  as  possible,  for  when  the  strain  of  the  suspense  is 
removed,  the  interest  wanes  rapidly  and  the  effect  of  the. 
preceding  scenes  is  speedily  lost. 

A  writer  who  intends  to  persist  in  this  work  should  be- 
gin to  collect  "scrap" — clippings  from  newspapers  and 
magazines  of  incidents  that  strike  him  as  suitable  ideas  for 
photoplays,  jottings  of  incidents  that  he  witnesses  or  hears 
recounted,  imaginary  happenings  that  flash  into  his  mind. 
All  these  should  be  kept  in  a  scrapbook  so  as  to  be  at  hand 
when  needed.  These  are  the  germs  of  future  plots.  Wil- 
liam T.  Price,  in  his  "Technique  of  the  Drama,"  says: 
"Every  true  play  fashioned  under  a  creative  hand  has  its 
germ.  This  germ  may  be  a  pregnant  and  suggestive  trait 
in  some  character,  a  happening — of  personal  knowledge  in 
life,  an  incident  in  history,  a  paragraph  in  a  newspaper — 
in  short,  a  dramatic  idea  from  any  source.  Charles  Reade 
admittedly  sought  with  diligence  the  history  of  each  day 
as  the  press  abundantly  gathered  its  comedies  and  trag- 
edies." 

To  illustrate  what  can  be  done  with  a  suggestion,  we'll 
suppose  that  you  have  clipped  from  a  -  newspaper  an  ac- 
count of  the  finding  of  the  body  of  a  young  man  in  the 
river.  The  article  describes  him  as  well-dressed,  tells  of 
a  label  on  his  coat  and  identification  card  in  a  pocket.  These 
point  to  the  fact  that  he  cornes  of  a  good  family  in  Vir- 
ginia. The  police  state  that  he  has  been  involved  in  a  num- 
ber of  bold  robberies  arid  lost  his  life  trying  to  escape  after 
a  burglary. 

Now,  there  you  have  the  germ  of  a  plot.  The  thing  is 
clouded  in  mystery.  Why  should  this  well-bred  young  man 
become  a  burglar?  What  were  his  relations  with  his  fam- 
ily? How  are  you  going  to  lift  the  veil?  How  are  you 
going  to  expand  this  meager  account  into  complications, 
conflict,  climaxes?  Let  us  work  this  out  together.  First, 
what  is  to  be  the  purpose  of  our  plot?  Shall  we  prove  this 
to  be  a  case  of  mistaken  identity  and  clear  the  young  Vir- 

21 


ginian's  name  and  bring  joy  to  his  shamed  family?  Very 
well.  Then,  we'll  assume  that  the  body  is  not  that  of  the 
young  Virginian  (we'll  call  him  "Jack").  Then,,  whose 
body  is  it?  And  where  did  the  drowned  man  get  Jack's 
clothes  and  pocket-book?  Now,  the  plotting  begins.  We 
must  go  back  and  account  for  Jack's  being  away  from  home. 
We'll  imagine  that  he  has  quarreled  with  his  parents  over 
a  girl  whom  they  wish  him  to  marry.  He  is  infatuated  with 
a  vaudeville  actress.  His  father,  in  a  rage,  drives  him 
from  the  house.  He  goes  to  the  actress;  she  laughs  at  him 
when  she  learns  that  his  family  has  cast  him  off.  Humili- 
ated, he  goes  to  New  York.  There  a  thief  steals  his  clothes 
from  his  room.  The  thief  wears  the  clothes.  He  belongs 
to  a  gang  of  motor  boat  thieves.  Running  from  a  house 
near  the  river,  they  jump  into  their  boat.  The  thief  wear- 
ing Jack's  clothes  is  last;  he  misses  the  jump,  falls  into  the 
water.  The  police  are  pursuing  and  the  others  will  not  stop 
the  boat.  The  thief  sinks  out  of  sight  in  the  water. 

Now,  we  have  accounted  for  the  drowned  man  and  for 
the  mistaken  identity.  But  where  is  Jack  that  he  does  not 
deny  the  false  report?  We  must  have  him  away  from  the 
city,  in  some  place  where  he  will  not  see  the  daily  papers. 
Suppose  we  take  him  up  to  a  logging  camp  in  the  moun- 
tains. Our  big  climax,  we  have  settled,  is  to  be  an  unex- 
pected meeting  between  Jack  and  his  parents,  who  sup- 
pose him  to  be  dead.  We  cannot  go  straight  to  that  end, 
for  that  would  make  the  play  too  short  and  lacking  in  in- 
terest and  suspense.  We  must  create  conflict  and  suspense. 
What  obstacle  can  we  introduce  to  make  trouble  for  Jack? 
We  might  have  another  character — say  a  cousin,  Bert — who 
is  jealous  of  Jack  and  in  love  with  the  girl,  May.  This 
cousin  also  expects  to  inherit  from  Jack's  father,  so  he  is 
glad  on  every  count  that  Jack  is  out  of  the  way.  We  must 
plan  the  scenes  that  lead  to  our  big  climax.  For  that  rea- 
son, we'll  have  Jack's  parents,  Bert,  and  May  go  to  a 
bungalow  in  the  mountains.  Before  filling  in  the  scenes,  we 

22 


must  decide  on  the  nature  of  our  grand  climax.  It  must  be 
as  thrilling  as  possible,  as  it  is  the  very  height  of  the  play. 
A  forest  fire  occurs  to  us,  with  Jack  saving  the  lives  of  his 
parents  and  May.  But  May  has  had  so  little  to  do  so  far. 
We  must  invent  something  to  make  her  more  interesting 
and  sympathetic  to  spectators  and  to  make  it  plausible  that 
Jack  should  love  her  at  last.  Suppose  we  have  her  rouse 
Jack's  father  and  mother,  when  she  discovers  the  fire,  and 
guide  them  through  the  smoke  to  Jack.  We  can  add  to  the 
thrill  by  having  her  refuse  to  escape  with  Bert.  That 
brings  another  idea.  Let  us  have  Bert  the  cause  of  the  fire. 
Soon  after  his  arrival  in  the  mountains  he  will  run  across 
Jack  in  the  woods.  He  is  startled  and  annoyed.  He  must 
keep  Jack  from  his  parents ;  so  he  pretends  to  be  there 
alone.  He  plans  to  have  Jack  driven  from  the  camp.  At 
a  card  game  in  a  cabin,  he  accuses  Jack  of  cheating  the 
men  he  is*  playing  with.  Jack  calls  him  a  liar.  They 
fight.  A  lamp  is  overturned ;  the  cabin  burns ;  the  fire 
spreads  to  the  forest.  Jack  and  men  try  to  stop  the  blaze. 
Bert  rushes  to  the  bungalow;  gets  out  the  automobile.  He 
calls  May  and  tries  to  persuade  her  to  escape  with  him. 
She  indignantly  refuses.  She  rouses  Jack's  father  and 
mother  and  urges  them  to  leave  the  bungalow.  In  the 
smoke,  they  become  bewildered.  They  rush  toward  a 
clearing.  Jack  sees  the  party  and  goes  to  help  them;  saves 
them  from  a  falling  tree.  Here  we  have  the  grand  climax. 
There  is  an  emotional  meeting.  Jack  then  leads  them  to  a 
safe  spot. 

Now,  we  have  the  fall,  or  anti-climax,  which  we  must 
get  over  as  quickly  as  possible.  The  next  day,  Jack  will 
call  at  the  bungalow.  He  will  realize  May's  love  for  him 
and  will  also  realize  that  he  is  in  love  with  her.  But  we 
have  not  disposed  of  Bert.  We  could  have  him  killed  while 
passing  through  the  fire  zone,  or  we  could  have  the  auto- 
mobile run  over  the  edge  of  a  precipice,  or  we  could  have 
him  return  the  next  day  to  see  what  has  happened  to  May 

23 


and  the  others.  Perhaps  this  will  be  the  best  way.  Some 
lumber  jacks  see  him  and,  blaming  him  for  the  fire,  they 
surround  him  and  drag  him  from  the  car.  They  treat  him 
roughly.  Jack  and  May  arrive  on  the  scene.  Jack  orders 
the  men  to  release  Bert.  Jack  then  advises  him  to  go  if 
he  values  his  life.  He  slinks  away. 

There  you  have  an  example  of  plot-building  from  an  item 
in  a  newspaper.  Every  paper  is  full  of  suggestions.  Get 
into  the  habit  of  reading  with  the  intention  of  finding  those 
suggestions.  Be  curious  as  to  the  "whys  and  wherefores" 
of  every  occurrence  you  see,  hear  of,  or  read  of.  You  will 
find  that  the  practice  will  lead  to  a  fertility  of  invention 
that  will  often  surprise  you.  When  your  plot  is  built  up, 
you  are  ready  to  construct  your  photoplay  scene  by  scene. 
And  don't  forget  to  boil  down  your  plot  into  a  synopsis  of 
250  words,  as  described  in  connection  with  the  CINDER- 
ELLA scenario. 


WHAT    FILM    PRODUCERS    WANT 

All  the  companies  demand  original  ideas. 

Stories  of  everyday  life  stand  the  best  chance  of  accept- 
ance. 

You  have  doubtless  seen  on  the  screen  many  photoplays 
adapted  from  well-known  dramas  and  novels.  A  company 
that  produces  such  plays  prefers  that  its  own  editorial 
staff  prepare  the  scenarios. 

As  I  said  in  the  beginning,  there  is  an  unwavering  de- 
mand for  comedy.  What  is  wanted  is  novelty  of  plot  or  a 
fresh,  original  treatment  of  an  old  theme.  Comedy  of 
action  must  be  there  as  well  as  the  comedy  of  idea.  An 
ordinary,  prosy  series  of  events  leading  up  to  a  comical 
climax  does  not  constitute  a  comedy;  humorous  situations 
must  follow  each  other  as  the  play  develops.  And  the  de- 
velopment must  be  logical  and  natural;  forcing  ridiculous 
situations  for  the  sake  of  a  "scream"  results  in  foolishness 
that  is  far  from  what  is  desired.  There  is  a  lot  of  good 

24 


comedy  going  on  about  us.  For  one  who  knows  how  to 
grasp  it  and  present  it  there  is  an  avaricious  and  insatiable 
market. 

Comedies  are  usually  only  half  a  reel  in  length,  as  it  is 
difficult  to  find  humorous  incidents  to  fill  a  full  reel.  You 
will  sometimes  see  two  comedies  on  a  reel,  or  a  comedy  and 
an  industrial,  educational,  or  scenic  picture. 

"Features''  are  photoplays  of  unusual  character  and  of 
more  than  one  reel.  Every  company  likes  to  get  hold  of  a 
play  that  will  make  a  good  feature  of  two,  three,  or  four 
reels.  In  writing  a  feature  photoplay,  divide  into  parts, 
heading  each  part  "Reel  1,"  "Reel  2,"  etc.  End  each  part 
with:  "End  of  Reel  1,"  "End  of  Reel  2,"  etc.  Have  the 
first  scene  of  each  part  follow  numerically  the  last  scene  of 
the  preceding  part,  instead  of  writing  it  down  "Scene  1.'* 
If  Reel  1  finishes  with  Scene  22,  Reel  2  begins  with 
Scene  23. 

When  you  go  to  a  moving  picture  show,  pay  close 
attention  to  the  producers'  names  and  note  what  class 
of  pictures  they  specialize  in.  Some  of  them  prefer 
cowboy  plays,  others  like  plays  dealing  with  business, 
others  lean  toward  educational  and  social  reform  subjects. 
By  observing  the  preferences  of  the  various  producers, 
you  may  save  yourself  many  pangs  of  disappointment  and 
many  postage  stamps. 

Producers  do  not  care  for  scenarios  requiring  trick 
photography.  When  in  the  mood  to  produce  such  a  film, 
it  is  originated  and  worked  out  by  the  company's  staff. 

Also  take  into  consideration  that  a  producer  encour- 
ages economy  in  the  filming  of  the  majority  of  his  plays. 
A  scenario  that  demands  expensive  costuming  and  stage- 
settings  or  such  accessories  as  special  trains,  palatial 
yachts,  or  aeroplanes  will  not  receive  as  cordial  a  welcome 
as  one  that  makes  more  modest  demands. 

•    25 


TO  SAVE  YOUR  ENERGY,  TIME,  AND  POSTAGE 

Do  not  send  scenarios  dealing  with  foreign  subjects  to 
American  companies. 

Do  not  send  cowboy  and  western  plays  to  New  York 
companies,  unless  you  know  that  they  have  western  com- 
panies doing  field  work. 

Do  not  send  plays  with  a  Chicago  setting  to  New  York 
companies,  and  vice  versa. 

Do  not  send  plays  with  children  dominating  the  scenes 
to  companies  that  use  children  but  seldom  and  in  only 
minor  parts.  Learn  through  the  films  at  the  theatres 
which  companies  favor  children. 

Do  not  send  promiscuously  scenarios  requiring  work  of 
trained  animals.  The  Selig  Polyscope  Co.  is  the  only 
one  I  know  of  at  present  that  maintains  a  menagerie. 

Do  not  write  plays  containing  acts  of  violence  or  crimes. 
All  photoplays  have  to  be  passed  upon  by  the  National 
Board  of  Censors,  and  the  censorship  is  very  strict.  If  a 
crime  is  committed,  as  an  incident  in  the  play,  the  method 
of  its  commission  may  not  be  shown  in  the  picture,  but 
the  perpetrators  must  be  caught  and  punished.  If  the 
play  deals  with  a  minor  offense,  the  culprit  or  culprits  must 
be  shown  repentant.  Kidnapping  must  not  be  shown. 
Also,  there  must  be  nothing  in  a  photoplay  to  offend  good 
taste  or  morals,  nothing  to  offend  the  various  religious 
creeds  and  nationalities.  There  is  no  reason  for  such  plays 
anyway — there  are  so  many  phases  of  life  strong  in  human 
interest  from  which  we  can  draw  our  plots. 

Do  not  submit  scenarios  that  are  founded  on  copy- 
right plays  or  stories.  The  penalty  for  the  infringement 
of  a  copyright  is  severe.  If  you  draw  your  inspiration 
from  a  play  or  a  story  that  is  not  copyrighted,  state  the 
source  under  the  title  of  your  scenario. 

26 


PREPARATION  OF  YOUR  SCRIPT 

If  it  is  possible,  always  have  your  scenario  typewritten. 
If  you  cannot  type  it  yourself  and  know  of  no  one  who 
can  do  it  for  you,  write  it  legibly  in  ink.  This  advice  is 
very  important,  for  the  editorial  departments  of  producing 
companies  receive  so  many  scripts  that  they  have  no  time 
to  puzzle  over  anything.  Typewritten  copy  is  always 
given  preference  over  handwritten;  and  some  of  the  editors 
refuse  to  read  any  but  typewritten  script.  Among  them 
are  the  editors  of  the  Vitagraph,  Kalem,  and  Edison 
companies. 

Use  either  foolscap  sheets  or  business  letter  size — that 
is,  8^/2  by  11  inches. 

Write  on  one  side  of  the  paper  only.  Always  keep  a 
carbon  copy  of  your  script;  in  the  event  of  its  being  lost 
in  transit,  you  will  not  then  have  all  your  work  to  do  over 
again.  But  do  not  send  the  copy  to  a  company  while 
the  original  is  still  under  consideration  with  another.  Wait 
until  your  scenario  is  rejected  before  you  submit  it  else- 
where. 

Do  not  roll  your  script.  Fold  it  in  as  few  folds  as 
possible  and  enclose  in  a  legal  size  envelope  with  a 
stamped  and  addressed  envelope  for  return.  It  is  best 
to  have  the  enclosed  envelope  a  shade  smaller  than  the 
outside  one  in  order  to  obviate  folding  it;  yet  it  should 
contain  the  script  without  making  additional  creases  in 
the  latter. 

Write  your  name  and  address  on  the  first  and  last  sheets 
of  each  script.  Do  not  trust  to  the  return  envelope — it 
may  become  separated  from  the  script.  A  short  time  ago, 
a  play  was  accepted  and  immediately  produced  by  one  of 
the  big  companies.  The  writer  had  neglected  to  send 
either  name  or  address,  consequently  he  did  not  hear  from 
the  producer.  However,  soon  after  the  play  was  released 
to  the  theatres,  the  author  saw  it  and  wrote  in  indignantly 
to  the  producer  practically  accusing  him  of  stealing  the 

27 


play.  This  time,  lie  did  not  forget  to  send  his  name  and 
address,  so  the  company  was  able  to  explain  the  dilemma 
and  send  the  writer  a  check. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  write  a  letter  when  sending  a 
script  to  a  producer.  Your  object  is  self-evident  and, 
if  you  do  not  forget  to  affix  your  name  and  address,  you 
will  hear  from  the  company  within  a  couple  of  weeks. 
But  you  need  not  worry  if  that  space  of  time  is  exceeded; 
you  must  make  up  your  mind  to  be  patient,  for  those 
scenario  editors  are  very  busy  men  and  they  make  their 
decisions  as  promptly  as  is  compatible  with  deliberate 
j  udgment. 


PRICES  PAID  FOR  SCENARIOS 

It  is  usual  to  leave  the  price  of  a  script  to  the  judg- 
ment of  the  editor,  but  if  you  have  any  definite  idea  of 
what  you  want  for  your  play,  mark  the  price  on  the  first 
page.  But  I  advise  you  not;  to  make  it  exorbitant.  There 
is  a  mistaken  idea  abroad  that  enormous  prices  are  paid 
for  scenarios.  It  is  as  well  to  eradicate  that  idea  at  once 
and  save  yourself  future  disappointment.  Prices  range 
from  five  dollars  to  one  hundred  dollars,  according  to  orig- 
inality and  value  to  the  purchasing  company.  The  average 
price  is  twenty  dollars.  But  any  company  is  only  too  glad 
to  pay  fifty  dollars  for  a  good  plot  that  is  worked  out  with 
original  situations.  Such  a  scenario,  they  say,  is  a  rare 
find.  A  writer  who  gets  as  much  as  one  hundred  dollars 
is  either  a  writer  of  note  or  one  who  submits  a  wonderfully 
brilliant  piece  of  work. 

So,  don't  listen  to  the  wild  tales  of  fortunes  to  be  made, 
but  buckle  down  with  the  sane  idea  that  there  is  a  big 
market  for  good  photoplays  and  that  for  a  writer  who  has 
the  ability  and  observes  the  suggestions  laid  down  in  this 
book  and  works  honestly,  there  is  a  nice  little  revenue 
to  be  counted  on. 

28 


LIST  OF  PROD0CI$(*  CG 

AMERICAN  FILM  Co.,  Ashland  Block,  Chicago,  111.  La 
Mesa,  California.  (Western  studio).  The  Chicago 
studio  wants  plays  of  society  life,  dramas  and  comedies. 
The  Western  studio  wants  modern  cowboy  dramas  and 
comedies. 

BIOGRAPH  Co.,  11  E.  14th  St.,  New  York.  Strong  dramas, 
comedies,  and  comedy-dramas.  Comedies  must  be  clean 
and  clever. 

EDISON  Co.,  Decatur  Ave.  and  Oliver  PL,  Bronx,  New 
York.  Plays  of  all  types  that  are  out  of  the  ordinary. 
Plays  pointing  morals  or  with  educational  tendencies,  if 
interesting  and  dramatic.  Good,  clean  comedies. 

ESSANAY  FILM  MFG.  Co.,  1333  Argyle  St.,  Chicago,  111. 
Original  dramatic  stories  with  strong  heart  interest. 
Sparkling  comedies  with  plenty  of  action.  Not  in  the 
market  for  Western  plays. 

GREAT  NORTHERN  FEATURE  FILM  Co.,  7  East  14th  St., 
New  York.  Special  features  of  great  themes.  Plots 
must  be  of  great  originality  and  worth  to  be  accepted. 

KALEM  Co.,  235  West  23d  St.,  New  York.  Strong  dramas 
of  modern  American  life,  novel  in  plot  and  full  of  action. 
Split-reel  (half  a  reel)  comedies,  novel,  farcical,  and 
full  of  lively  action.  Western  dramas,  novel  and  full  of 
thrilling  action.  Military  plays,  based  upon  daring  ex- 
ploits and  sensational  military  maneuvers  in  which  large 
armies  may  be  shown  in  spectacular  action. 

KINEMACOLOR  Co.  OF  AMERICA,  1600  Broadway,  New 
York.  High-class  comedies  and  dramas. 

LUBIN  MFG.  Co.,  20th  St.  and  Indiana  Ave.,  Philadelphia, 
Pa.  Plays  of  modern  American  life  preferred — society, 
home,  and  business  life.  But  plays  of  any  character  are 
accepted  if  they  possess  strong,  unusual  features. 

MAJESTIC  MOTION  PICTURE  Co.,  510  West  2 1st  St.,  New 
York.  Strong,  emotional  dramas.  Clever,  original  full- 
reel  comedies  or  comedy-dramas. 

29 


PATHI&  F#E$BS^  J'jGojrigress  jSt5, Jersey  City  Heights,  N.  J. 
All  types'  'of  plays. -.  'American  comedies  and  dramas; 
comedies  preferred. 

PILOT  FILM  CORPORATION,  120  School  St.,  Yonkers,  N.  Y. 
One-reel  features — dramas  that  are  different  from  the 
usual  run. 

RELIANCE  Co.,  540  West  21st  St.,  New  York.  Strong 
dramas  of  American  life.  Original  and  dainty  comedies. 
Emotional  two-reel  dramas — those  dealing  with  the  big 
social  problems  of  present-day  American  life.  Costume 
plays  not  wanted. 

SELIG  POLYSCOPE  Co.,  20  East  Randolph  St.,  Chicago,  111. 
Uses  very  few  outside  scripts. 

SELIG  WESTERN  Co.,  Allesandro  St.,  Los  Angeles,  Cali- 
fornia. Plays  in  which  the  old  missions  can  be  used. 
Historical  plots  or  historical  incidents  introduced  into 
plays. 

SOLAX  Co.,  Fort  Lee,  N.  J.  Spectacular  dramas.  Stirring 
melodramas.  Clean,  lively  comedies. 

UNIVERSAL  FILM  MFG.  Co.,  1600  Broadway,  New  York. 
This  is  a  company  that  controls  those  listed  below  and 
considers  scenarios  for  all  of  them:  Bison  Co.,  Cham- 
pion Co.,  Eclair  Co.,  Crystal  Co.,  Gem  Co.,  Imp  Co., 
Nestor  Co.,  Powers  Co.,  Rex  Co.,  Victor  Co.  A  re- 
jection slip  from  one  of  these  companies  serves  for  all 
of  them,  as  the  scenarios  are  read  with  reference  to  the 
needs  of  each. 

VITA  GRAPH  Co.  OF  AMERICA,  East  15th  St.  and  Locust  Ave., 
Brooklyn,  N.  Y.  This  company  releases  six  reels  week- 
ly; their  demand  is  therefore  greater  than  that  of  any 
other  single  company.  They  buy  good  dramas,  melo- 
dramas, comedies,  and  farces.  Anything  interesting, 
strong,  and  original  is  available. 

SO 


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